


Baby Blue

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after Not Fade Away, Buffy and Spike are ready to make a go of things. With each other. He'd tried last year with Illyria, and Buffy had done the same with Angel, but that was all behind them now.</p><p>Until Illyria arrives with a surprise birthday present for Spike that can't be returned or exchanged: a baby girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Joss owns 'em; I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them.

It was a good night. Spike killed the Djork demon that was plaguing the Reynolds Mall, collecting a $10K reward, then got on the phone and sold the rights to the horns to a Japanese consortium that would grind them up to make an aphrodisiac. He spent the rest of the night in his favorite club, standing a round of drinks for everyone in the bar (and thus going through a tenth of his reward, as no one offered a free drink ever ordered the house brand), and dancing with every lady there. Unfortunately (or fortunately, as it turned out), that meant he couldn't go home with any of them, it not being precisely gentlemanly to express such a preference after assuring each of them she was the loveliest creature alive.

So he went home alone, barely beating the sunrise, his ears ringing and his body buzzing. And he rounded the corridor to his basement flat and saw Buffy there, leaning on his doorframe, her face tense, her body relaxed. Oh, no, he thought, imagining all sorts of things. But then she straightened up, and her face went sweet, and all he could think was that she was – bad choice of words– vamping him, finding her inner-Faith, leaning towards him, touching him on the chest with her little hands, whispering something he couldn't hear over that damned buzzing.

He unlocked the door and picked up her shopping bag and followed her in, uneasily aware of the perfume of every dance partner– Poison and Joy and Versace and Eternity– clinging to his shirt. He stripped it off, muttered that he needed to shower, and left her there in the living room. He glanced back just once to see that her face was tense again.

His night's pleasure fled. He couldn't do this again. He just couldn't. Every time she gutted him like a fish. And why now? They'd been friends and fighting partners now for a few months, and it was all right. They were getting on just fine. He'd taught himself not to want any more. All he really wanted was to –

She was getting into the shower with him. She was naked. Her expression was full of intent. Her hands were full of shower gel.

He was only human, or had been once, and what could he do? He let her soap him up, and he repaid the favor, and he accepted her kiss, and kissed her back, and their bodies slid sweetly and soapily together. And he thought about how long it had been since they kissed, since they touched with such intent. Since before he got his soul. A lifetime ago. It shouldn't feel so right, so natural, so familiar. They shouldn't do this so easily, know each other's bodies so well. But they always had, from the very first– known intuitively what was wanted, what was needed–

And because he was only human, he waited until he'd gotten all he could get– every caress, every kiss, every murmur, every moment– before asking what it all meant.

It was a stupid question because he'd already heard the answer. Two years ago, he'd held her all night, the parfit gentil knight, never asking for more than that. But the next day, he couldn't help himself. He asked what it meant, these nights, all this holding. And she looked at him, and then away, and she said, "Does it have to mean anything?"

That echoed, that answer that was a question, with everything that happened to him after that. So when she told him she loved him, when their hands burst into flames, he thought, "Does it have to mean anything?" When he died, and when he was brought back to life, he thought, "Does it have to mean anything?" When he fought with Angel and won, he thought, "Does it have to mean anything?" When his friends died, fighting for some fool cause, he thought, "Does it have to mean anything?" When they lost that fight, and he and Illyria were left standing with the despairing Angel, he thought, "Does it have to mean anything?" When Buffy returned... when he went off with Illyria... when Buffy chose Angel... when Illyria left, when Buffy let Angel go... Does it have to mean anything?

A real existential bugger, that question, that answer. The answer should have always been no. That was the sensible answer. None of this matters. That's how you survive.

But his heart always answered yes. It has to matter. It just does.

Now Buffy curled into him, tugging the comforter around her, and sighed. "What does it mean? It means I got tired of waiting for you to come to me."

She could be so flippant. He didn't know why he bothered to love her. She didn't care. It was mostly just a game for her. "Yeah. Okay." He started to get up and she grabbed hold of his arm.

"Wait. Did I say something wrong?"

"Doesn't matter, Slayer. Just let it go." And when she kept a grip on his arm, "And let me go too."

"No." She was strong; she pulled him easily back down onto the bed and got on top of him, her pugnacious little face a few inches away. "I didn't mean that. Whatever you thought I meant. I meant– " She took a deep breath. "I meant I finally got the courage to come to you. The courage you've always had. To be together." She whispered, "It's been so long. We've been so many things to each other. I want to be everything."

He shook his head, meaning not _no_ but _I don't understand._

Buffy fell against him, like her little speech had taken all the spunk out of her. Automatically he put his arms around her, and she put her head against his chest, and he had to admit they fit just like they were supposed to be together. "Tell me," he said.

She sighed, her breath just brushing his throat. "I don't know. I just– just want now to start. I'm ready for the rest to be over, and now to start." She wriggled a little, trying to make sense. "It's been a really strange year. I spent the whole time feeling that it was wrong. That I was wrong. That the world was... off. And I think I knew all along it was because we weren't with each other. That you were with Illyria and I was with Angel–"

It still made him angry. Her with Angel.

Maybe it made her angry too, to think of him with Blue.

She went on, her voice getting softer, "That we just kind of drifted into being friends, like it was the easiest thing to do. That we could just pretend that we'd never been more. That we could go out and patrol and talk and then – and then you'd go off, and I'd go home, and be alone, and wonder where you were and who you were with. And if you were safe. And if you were mine. Still."

"Why now?"

"Because I figured it out. You weren't coming back. You weren't going to do it this time." She huddled up against him, like she was seeking warmth where she'd never find any. "Do you still love me?"

He'd done his share of intemperate declarations. The time was past for that. He just shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. For the time being."

She punched him, real light, just teasing, and started to laugh, and then stopped. "Not much longer, that's what I thought. And I could go on being scared, or I could risk it all and come to you. And so here I am."

He considered this for awhile. "So what does it mean?"

A sigh of exasperation. "It means I want to be with you. In all the ways. Not just friends. Not just bedmates. I want to love you."

"You always could."

"Okay. So now I will. So let's."

He thought about tormenting her some more– _Let's what? You will what?_ But she was being so brave, and he did love her, and – and though he didn't trust the moment one bit (too much like fantasies he'd been having for five years), he drew her close and said, "Yeah, maybe that'll work. Us. You and me."

His eloquence had deserted him, but she didn't mind. She kissed him, her eyes sparkling, and said, "We'll have fun. We'll be good to each other. Just you wait. Oh!" And she pulled away and hopped out of bed and ran naked back into the living room. She returned with her shopping bag, and got back into bed, shoving him over a few inches to make room. "I got you some stuff."

"Why?"

"It's your birthday."

It didn't seem likely. He hadn't had a birthday since... well, since he was still living at home with his mother, who always gave him lemon drops, no matter how old he'd gotten, and three books (one in Greek, one in Latin, and one in English), and two fine lawn shirts she had monogrammed herself. And that was a very very long time. "You don't know when my birthday is."

"Today. March 21. The vernal equinox."

"How do you know that?" he said suspiciously.

"Research." She leaned back against his chest and opened up her bag. "Your big 150th was last year, but I think the First had you then. Anyway, I thought maybe, since I'm your girlfriend, I'd better start celebrating your birthday."

I'm your girlfriend. Well, that came easy. Maybe she meant it. "What if I'd sent you on your way?"

"Then you wouldn't get this–" And she handed him a little package wrapped in blue paper and tied with a yellow ribbon.

He fumbled to open it, fighting back the weakest of tears. No one ever gave him gifts– not that he cared– okay, Charlie Gunn had given him a silver pen with Spike engraved on the side, when he kind of joined the crew almost officially. He still had that pen, used it to write in his journal, nothing else. But otherwise, well, no gifts. And here was Buffy, her shopping bag abrim, her eyes alight with anticipation.

"It's a DVD," she said. "Used, but I couldn't find any new ones, so I had to buy it on eBay."

It was _Rock and Roll High School_ , the movie featuring the Ramones in concert.

"I'll even watch it with you," she offered, and her tone made it clear that now he better not ever say she didn't really love him.

"Thanks, pet," he said, and then he couldn't say anymore.

She didn't notice, as she was hauling out something else– a packet of hobnobs, the oat biscuits he loved. "Dawn sent these from Oxford. She said you used to eat Oreos and say they weren't as good dipped in blood as hobnobs."

He opened the card, something silly and Snoopy and signed _Love, Dawn_. And then Buffy gave him a gaudy little red gift bag. "I got this when I was in London last year. I didn't even know you were back alive. But I had to get it. For you. And for me to remember you–"

It was a Manchester United pennant, the kind you attached to your car window. "Baby, that's– " He couldn't bear to think of her in London, thinking of him, thinking he was dead, getting this even though she didn't know she'd ever give it to him.

But she shoved right past that moment– she was never much for tears anyway. "I got you these cute socks–" he took the little square box, frowning, because any socks that could be called cute were socks he wouldn't want to wear. And he was right– they had little yellow and orange Wile E. Coyotes all over the blue background. Cute. Like puke.

"Now, you know no one will see them under your boots, darling," she said. She'd never called him that before. If she called him that again, he'd probably agree to wear a propeller beanie. "But I'll know they're there, and that you're wearing them for me."

Bitch. "Okay. I guess –" and he mumbled the rest, something resembling "I'll wear them."

She smiled and handed over the last package. "Just for that, I'll give you something else. Giles said you'd like it."

He opened the drawstring of the red velvet bag and drew out a small bottle. Lagavulin 16. The sort of single malt that was reserved for special occasions. He supposed Rupert Giles would expect him to sip it slowly. And not get drunk.

He didn't know what to say. Buffy gathered everything together and put all the gifts and the discarded wrapping back in the shopping bag, and then she kissed him on the lips. "Happy birthday."

"The happiest yet," he whispered.

 

 

And then it all went to hell, or some other dimension anyway.  



	2. Chapter 2

There was a glow of light in front of the bed. It felt like sunrise, and Spike instinctively grabbed at the comforter to protect him. But then it faded, and Illyria stood there.

It was dim there in his bedroom, with the blinds shut tight and only the hall light on. But now the glow came from within her, a moody blue glow. She was herself as he remembered her, only more terrible and majestic, her face hard and exalted. He rose from the bed, not to worship her, only to meet her straight on. He pulled on his jeans– stupid; it wasn't like she hadn't seen it all before, but something in the situation, Buffy's presence probably, made him need that bit of armor.

It was hard to believe he'd ever kissed Illyria. Or ever coupled with her. Ever made her laugh, or made her gasp. And yet he had, and he had to remember that– she was a godking, but he had touched her, not so long ago. She would not intimidate him now.

So he kept his voice easy. "How ya doin', Blue?"

The old nickname made her eyes flash. He couldn't tell if it was from anger or some memory of affection. She hadn't left him in anger, he knew that. She just could not abide this world any longer, no matter how much he entertained her. She would have been glad enough to take him along, deep into the Deeper Well, but he hadn't been ready to be buried.

So she had no reason to be angry now– he'd been with Buffy, no denying it, but she wouldn't blame him for that. Still her eyes flashed blue fire at him, and if he were a lesser vampire, he'd be worried about his flammability. "Half-breed," she said, and he relaxed. That was her idea of an endearment.

Then she turned her gaze on Buffy. "Slayer." She spoke with some measure of respect, one warrior to another.

Buffy wasn't a girl anymore. She didn't pull the comforter up to her shoulders, but sat there naked, her breasts bold and bare. "Illyria."

Now that the greetings were done, Spike thought it best to proceed. "Whatcha need, Blue? An axe? A new door?"

"I need you."

Oh, brilliant. Here he was, finally getting things sorted, a nice little business in the killing industry, Buffy in his bed, and Blue needed him. "What for?"

She held out her arms. Her hands were palm-up, and her elbows were slightly bent. She stared at him. "It is the vernal equinox."

"Spike's birthday," Buffy observed, a bit haughtily, as if she, the new official girlfriend, got to keep track of such things.

Blue turned to him, her head cocked in that birdlike way. "How appropriate." Her arms were still out, her fingers slightly curled, and he thought of the hours she had stood still like that, when she had first come to the world and needed a retreat. But now her arms looked empty, a vessel with no contents.

She looked impatiently up at the ceiling, as if she were expecting something to fall from there. Then she muttered something that might have been "bloody stupid minions" and lowered her arms and snapped her fingers.

He looked over at Buffy and knew she felt it too, the weird tingle. He felt it in his forearms, where the other slayer (the psycho one) had maimed him. She felt it in her hands, to judge by the way she flexed them.

They were going somewhere. Somewhere... else.

Buffy hardly had time to grab hold of the sheet before they dissolved, or rather, the place they'd been in dissolved. They stayed solid (he knew what it felt like to dissolve). But the bed and the floor and the walls– his world– crumbled into dust.

And around them solidified another world– one of stone and cold. The Deeper Well.

Illyria stood before them. Around them were hooded men with torches.

Instinctively, he dropped into a battle stance, and Buffy was there at his back, readying herself. His brave tiger. He couldn't see her, but imagined her, sheet wrapped around her slim naked body, fists up, face fierce.

But all the time, his mind was racing. Illyria wasn't insane. And she couldn't hate him. They'd parted as friends, or whatever Illyria deigned to be. They'd made love one last time under the boughs of the Gate Tree above. She'd licked the tears off his face. Hell, she'd told him to show up in a century for a get-together if he was still intact. There wasn't any hatred–

So what was this?

She came to stand before him, a foot away. "I have something to give you, Spike."

Buffy hissed. Illyria glanced at her, and then stepped back. She held out her arms again, and this time, something appeared. It took form gradually, a small thing, white and wriggling. Its cry seemed to come with it from wherever it had been, opening and increasing as it took form in Illyria's arms.

A baby. "A baby?" he said.

"My scion."

Oh. "Oh. Okay." Why not? Gods had progeny. They usually ate them, but that was the price of a classical education– he remembered such things. He tore his gaze from the wriggling little form and looked at Illyria. "Why give it to me?"

He expected her to say something about the Fell Brotherhood, about how he had rescued that baby and so he could be trusted to transport this scion wherever Illyria wanted it to go. He could do that. He could take this little squirming thing and protect it on a journey. Sure. He could protect it.

Her. Not it. This was a girl, and plenty loud, with a scrunched up little red face full of fury and a headful of dark curls.

"She is yours too."

He'd been about to reach out and touch the squaller's arm– he'd always been vulnerable to demanding women– but this made him look up. "What do you mean, mine?"

"I desired progeny. I used you to create it."

"But– " It was impossible. It was absurd. "But I'm a vampire. I can't– You can't–"

"I am Illyria." And then she was all majesty again, and the baby shut up in mid-scream. "God-king of the seven dimensions. Guardian of the Deeper Well. If I want to create progeny with you, vampire, I can make your seed come to life. Do you doubt that?"

"But..." He felt Buffy turn behind him, touch his arm. And he said, "You should have asked me."

She didn't dignify this with an answer. "Take it."

He put out his arms, and Illyria gently deposited the naked baby there. He acted automatically, drawing her into his chest so she wouldn't squirm loose and fall. He still didn't believe this. "Why are you giving her to me?"

Illyria gazed haughtily at him. "It is the vernal equinox."

"Yeah, so?"

"So she must sojourn in the upperworld. For six months. Spring and summer. That time she must spend with her other progenitor."

He was struck speechless. The baby wriggled against his chest. Buffy finally spoke, "And then? After six months?"

"She must spend the autumn and winter here in the underworld with me. But she must go with you now."

Illyria's face was hard. She didn't care. That's what others would say, looking at her. But Spike knew her better than anyone. This hurt her, as renouncing him had hurt her. In a remote way, perhaps, but she was hurting.

"Why?" he whispered.

"It is the way of the Old Ones. And it is right. She is not just of the underworld, but the aboveworld too."

It made as much sense as the rest of it. "What is her name?"

Illyria said something that he couldn't pronounce, even with his twelve languages, human and demon. It was a harsh name. It fit this cold stone cave, but not the warm squirming girl in his arms. "I will give her another name, above."

Illyria inclined her head. "Bring her back on the autumnal equinox. To the tree, where she was created."

Spike felt Buffy's gaze on him. He focused on Illyria and on holding the baby tight. "Send us back now."

And Illyria nodded, and started the slow dissolve again, and the baby started crying halfway through, poor thing, who could blame her. And in a moment they were back in his bedroom, standing next to the rumpled bed, and the baby gave a watery sigh and nestled her warm sweaty head against his chest, and he sat down abruptly on the side of the bed.

Buffy looked at him and at the baby– she was taking this well, considering, but then Buffy was always at her best with the unexpected-- and reached over to his pile of clean laundry and pulled out a black t-shirt. She handed it to him, and said, "She might be getting cold."

"Yeah." He put her on the bed beside him, and wrapped her in the soft old shirt. And then he just stared at her. His. It didn't make any sense. But she felt like his.

Buffy said, "I think first off, you should name her."

His mind was empty. He knew two names now– Buffy and Illyria, and all he knew was neither was right.

Buffy prompted, "What was your mother's name?"

That name came blinking into the blankness of his mind. "Anne."

"So she could be Anne."

He looked down at her, her tiny translucent eyelids almost closed, her dark lashes like shadows on her cheeks. "Anna," he said, and her eyes fluttered open. They were blue and dark, and something sparkled deep within. "Anna Joyce."


	3. Chapter 3

Unlife could change in the blinking of an eye. He knew that. He'd experienced it before– the moment he met Drusilla, the moment Angelus was cursed, the moment Spike first fell in love with Buffy. The moment she gave him the amulet and he knew it would kill him.

He'd had two of these moments in one day– Buffy coming to him in love, and this baby coming to him in need.

He held Anna and watched as Buffy came out of the bathroom, all showered and dressed and efficient. "I'm going to go buy you some supplies," she announced. "Disposable diapers and formula and a couple outfits." She stood over him, looking down at the baby on his lap. "Will she drink formula? Do you think? Is she... human?"

He felt his warm little baby against him, and said defensively, "Course she's human. Beating heart and all."

"Well, the daughter of a vampire and a god, who knows? But you can try a bottle of formula."

She moved briskly into the living room and located her purse. He should give her some money, he thought. But they could settle up later. He couldn't remember what he'd done with his wallet, with his $9,000 in hundred dollar bills. He rose with Anna in his arms and went out to Buffy. "Formula. I guess that's what replaced the wetnurse, huh?"

Buffy glanced back at him. "Uh, yeah. I– I don't remember much about when Dawn was a baby, and it's all bogus memories anyway, but I kind of remember there were different sorts of formula. Maybe they vary with age."

She gave Anna an assessing look, and once again, he felt defensive. Like she might find fault with his baby. Something wrong that meant she wasn't real, or wasn't really a baby. Or wasn't really his.

But all she asked was, "How old would you say she is?"

Good question. Blue never said. One of the many things Blue never said. "She's bigger and older than the baby I rescued from the Fell Brotherhood. That was a newborn. Anna is–" He didn't want to compare her to the other babies he'd known– the ones Drusilla had loved so, and so ruthlessly. "Older. But she's not very heavy."

Buffy made a face. "I'm no expert either. Why don't I get a few outfits of different sizes, and whichever one fits, that's how old she is approximately?"

She was being so good– calm and helpful and ... apart. And they'd finally been together. "Buffy." She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, and he said, "I'm sorry. I know you didn't sign on for this."

"Well, neither did you," she replied, and then she was out the door and gone.

"She'll be back," he told Anna, and he knew it was true. But why would she come back? Out of love? Out of duty?

Anna whimpered, and without thinking, he put his finger in her mouth, and she sucked on it and quieted. But she had to be hungry. "You want some nice milk, kitten? Buffy's gone to get you some. And you won't need to stay in that old t-shirt long. She'll get you some pretty pink something. Has good taste, does our Buffy."

But the baby didn't seem to care. She didn't want to make conversation or even eye contact. Poor little pet was probably exhausted from travelling dimensions and leaving her mum and– and she was the perfect darling when she slept, her mouth a bow making sucking moves now and then, her little paws curled into fists.

Spike watched her sleep, fascinated and enchanted and fearful. Finally he stirred himself. He had to get clean for her. Antiseptic. She might be a god's daughter, but she could still pick up germs. So he found a clean towel and laid it on the floor, and put her gently down on top. He lay her on her back, vaguely remembering an Oprah show about preventing Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (which he'd always assumed was from Achorite demons stealing the baby's little breath, but Oprah seemed to think it came from sleeping on the stomach). Then he surrounded the towel with a little wall of pillows.

He left the bathroom door open and his ears perked, and as he showered, he could hear every little breath she took. No Achorites here, now or ever. He'd make sure of it. And just in case Oprah was right, he'd always put Anna on her back to sleep.

Clean clothes. Top to bottom. And he probably ought to get new boots. He hated to throw away the ones he had– they were just getting broken in, but he'd had them since the last pair had been ruined in the big battle a year ago. And they were probably caked with invisible baby-hazardous germs. New boots. And he probably ought to call in one of those cleaning services to sterilize the place.

But– but she was supposed to be aboveground. And he had her in a basement.

He picked her up and held her against him. I'm a vampire, he thought. I can't even go out in the daylight. And she's supposed to be in the spring, in the summer, and I'm the worst father she could choose, can't take her out in the sun....

The door slammed open, and Buffy came in, laden with packages. If there was one thing the slayer was good at, besides slaying, it was shopping. And in just twenty minutes, she'd managed to pick up.... She started unloading it all onto the kitchen table.

Disposable diapers. A can of formula and two plastic bottles, premixed with milk. Three pink outfits. A teensy soft hair brush. A teething rattle. A–

"The little sleepers are so cute! I can't wait till I've got enough time to go to Babies R Us. But let's try these on–"

Spike was going to suggest feeding Anna first, but she'd be howling if she were hungry, he somehow knew that. Took after her dad, didn't she? So he and Buffy tried to figure out the mysteries of the disposable diaper, following the pictured instructions on the box, and it wasn't till they'd spoiled two that they figured out which way was front and which was back.

And then, reverently, he took the smallest outfit– a little terrycloth number with built-in socks, very clever, only it was hard enough getting the little arms into the sleeves– getting the feet into the legs and then into the socks was a true puzzler (especially with her little feet being about as darling as feet could be, complete with toenails the size of tictacs). Finally, triumphantly, he held Anna up for inspection– still sleeping, but fully clothed, and with a very well-padded bottom.

Buffy assessed her and said, "Well, that is a size three months sleeper, so she's probably three months old." She started to say something else, then fell silent and wouldn't look at him.

"What?"

"Well, when did you do it? With Illyria? I mean, you should be able to figure it out from that. A baby takes nine months, right?"

It was uncomfortable, this talk of doing it with Illyria. And no help anyway. "Not a year ago." He thought back to when he took her to the Well and said goodbye. It must have been then, as she said that Anna had been created by the Gate Tree, and they'd made love right there. "It would have been six months ago, when Illyria went underground. But if she can make seed come to life, she can make gestation happen at warp speed, right?"

"I guess."

Buffy watched as he carefully, one-handed, uncapped a pre-mixed bottles and recapped it nipple-up and shook it. (Okay, so he sometimes watched those shows on Lifetime Network. Daytime TV was important to a vampire who didn't sleep much.) "Don't you have to, you know, sterilize it?"

He shook his head. "Don't think so. It's all pasteurized and such." (Okay, so he sometimes watched the commercials too.) But then he thought about wily germs that might have crawled under the cap and attacked the nipple. He unscrewed the nipple contraption and handed it to Buffy. "Maybe microwave it? Unless you think it'll put radiation into the rubber–"

Buffy gave the nipple a wary look, but took it to the microwave. She set it carefully on a clean plate and nuked it for a minute. Then she removed it and, holding it by the edge of the cap, shook the nipple to cool it. Spike wordlessly held out the bottle and she re-assembled it.

"Okay," she said. "Let's remember most babies survive this process of feeding them."

Spike took a deep, unnecessary breath. Then he sat down with Anna at the kitchen table, and balancing her sleepy little head in the crook of her arm, nudged the bottle into her mouth. She didn't even wake up– just started sucking away, and in a minute, the bottle was drained.

"Well, she sure has a vampire's instincts," Buffy said drily. "So... are you going to hold her all day long?"

He'd sort of assumed that– but maybe he shouldn't be spoiling her that much. "I don't want to put her on the floor. But she could fall off the bed."

"In the old movies, they used to put babies in dresser drawers." Buffy went into the bedroom and rummaged around, then came back with a wooden drawer lined with towels and pillowcases. She set it down on the living room rug. "Let's see if she fits."

Anna objected to being set down from his arms into the dresser drawer, and he knew how she felt. At least she quieted when she got another bottle, and she fell back asleep in her little nest.

He still felt bereft. Incomplete. He turned and discovered Buffy had left him too. He found her in the kitchen, reading the can of formula. "Save those bottles," she said, not looking up. "You can re-use them. But you have to wash them in hot soapy water and rinse them three times."

"Okay."

She still didn't look at him. "And then you make a bottle for her with two scoops of this and then eight ounces of water. She's probably old enough that you don't need to warm it–"

"Buffy."

Finally she looked up. "Yeah."

"I didn't mean for this to happen."

She flashed a smile. "It's good that it happened. Babies. Good things. You named her after our mothers. Even better."

"Look–"

There was a knock on the door, and he had to go open it. His upstairs neighbor was there, and he stared at her a moment before recalling her name. "Mrs. Alvarez."

She was a little woman, round of body, with piercing black eyes and steel-gray hair. "I saw your friend come in, carrying a box of diapers! And then I happened to be walking by your window outside, and I heard a baby cry."

No vampire had hearing like Mrs. Alvarez. He wanted to ask what she'd heard this morning, when he and Buffy were getting down to it, but she was shoving past him, her gaze avidly roaming the living room. She lit on the dresser drawer and dropped to her knees beside it. "Ah! A baby! I knew it! And isn't she a little darling!"

"Yeah," Spike said modestly. "She is." And then he added, "She's mine."

"I can see the resemblance," Mrs. Alvarez observed. Her hands were already going under the sleeping Anna, and before he could tell her to leave be, she'd was clutching the baby to her cotton-bloused bosom. Anna slept on obliviously. "What a good baby! What a treasure! So much pretty dark hair! And that sweet little mouth! And her chin!"

Spike glanced over at Buffy. She was watching, her brows drawn together. But then she went back to tidying the box of diapers as if Anna's future depended on it.

"Where did you get this little precious?" Mrs. Alvarez cried. "Not from this little blonde girl. She doesn't look like she's ever gained an ounce, much less borne a child."

Quickly, before Buffy could react, Spike said, "My– my old girlfriend. I didn't know about the baby. But she just came and–"

Buffy broke in. "They're going to share custody. Spike has her for the next six months."

"Six months! Oh! You mean–"

Another knock on the door, and Mrs. Alvarez's granddaughter came rushing in. Jenny, that was the girl's name. Thirteen, fourteen, something like that. This might be the first time Spike had seen her face, because most of the time she walked along looking sullenly down at the floor. But now she rushed over crying, "You were right, Nana! It's a baby! Let me, let me!"

Spike wanted to take his baby back, protect her from these voracious women. But Jenny saw his expression and said loftily, "Don't worry. I took the Safe Babysitting course at school. And I have a baby cousin I watch after school sometimes. I know what I'm doing."

Well, he couldn't argue with that. She probably knew a lot more than he did. Strike the probably. She had to know more than he did. So she took the baby from her grandmother, lecturing all the while. "See, Spike, this is how you protect her head. And you want to make sure her breathing way is free. Sometimes her nose will be blocked up with snot, so her mouth always has to be unobstructed. And notice I don't let her legs dangle. That's so she won't suddenly kick me and surprise me into letting her slip. Oh, she's so adorable!"

Spike only got them to replace Anna in her makeshift crib by promising to bring Anna upstairs in the evening for their after-supper entertainment. He could hardly blame them for finding his new daughter beautiful and charming. So did he.

It was only after they left that Buffy emerged from the kitchen. She smiled at him. "Now I know her size, do you want me to get some other outfits? And another box of diapers. And I'll stop at the bookstore and get you some books. My mother always swore by Dr. Spock, I remember. And you should check the Internet for more information on necessary equipment. A crib, yeah, but what about a car seat? And a stroller? Maybe that upstairs lady can give you some tips." Her words finally ran out, and she came over and kissed him. He tried to keep hold of her hands, but she pulled away. "I'll call later, tell you what I found!" she said brightly, and headed out the door.

He didn't move for a moment. Then he knelt by the dresser drawer and picked Anna up. She murmured a protest, and he gathered her close (keeping her airway unobstructed and her head protected, just as Jenny advised), and he leaned against the couch and rocked her back to sleep. Pressing his cheek against her fine soft hair, he wondered why helpful, generous, diaper-buying Buffy was the only one around who could resist the desire to hold his baby.


	4. Chapter 4

Spike tended to love quickly, or not at all. Cecily he loved after their first meeting, unfortunately. Dru he was mad for the moment she displayed her bosoms (well, he was young and naive, and he'd never seen such up close before). Angelus and Darla he took into his heart within a day or two of meeting them (though he couldn't say it was so quickly reciprocated, and Darla exited said heart within a year or so). Dawn and Joyce were his immediately, though he didn't know it so soon. All through his life and unlife, his heart had made his decisions for him and the mind followed, and his heart was an impetuous one.

Only Buffy had been slow. And that was probably because she was his sworn enemy, and they mostly tried (not very hard, it was true) to kill each other for a couple years there. But when he fell for her, it took one intense dream, and that was it. He was committed totally. (So it took her another, uh, what, four years? He wasn't as easy to love.)

With Anna, well, it happened so quickly all he knew was that life was a barren desert one moment and an oasis the next. Not that he knew it was a desert before it was transformed. He thought it was pretty brilliant, at least the morning with Buffy in bed. But now he wondered how he had managed to live so long without this particular baby.

But he couldn't sit around all evening staring at her perfect little face. For one thing, Anna turned out to share vampire hours, which would likely be a problem in kindergarten but was quite welcome now. As soon as the sun went down outside, she woke up, howling for a bottle and a diaper change and some cuddling, and when that was all accomplished, she sat up, or at least looked up, a world of hope and excitement in her eyes. "Entertain me!" those eyes demanded. "Be funny!"

So he told his favorite jokes– the clean ones, anyway, not the ones Dawn emailed him– and then he went to his CD collection and started her musical education. Okay, the Sex Pistols were maybe a bit advanced on the punk scale, so he started with the Clash. Kind of easy-listening punk. And he held her up against his chest and danced with her, and she laughed and laughed. She had kind of a gurgling laugh, and a smile that showed her pink miniature gums.

But pretty soon Jenny came down and dragged them upstairs to the Alvarez flat, and Anna had to perform her whole routine– the chubby kicking legs, the waving fists, the enchanting smile. Both Jenny and her nana volunteered to babysit "whenever", though Jenny turned out to be a wily entrepreneur, insisting on $7 an hour and cans of Sprite in the refrigerator.

Spike spared a thought for what else was in his refrigerator– blood– and decided he'd have to get one of those mini-fridges and hide it in his bedroom. If Jenny snooped and found the jars of blood, well, he'd tell her they were really healthy veggie smoothies, and then she'd steer clear.

He finally got clear of the women at eight, and then only because _Smallville_ came on. Then he took Anna back down to his flat, hoping that the message light would be flashing. But there was no word from Buffy.

He couldn't blame her. She'd been a real help so far, considering that she'd planned something completely different for their first few days as a couple. He knew that she'd probably arrive in the morning with more supplies and a bright smile and she'd never speak of what had to be hurting her. That she wasn't his center anymore. Couldn't be. That changed in that moment Anna appeared, and there wasn't anything either of them could do about it.

He was a bit of miserable about it, but Anna needed more entertaining– greedy little girl, was his Anna– and so he bundled her up in two of the little outfits and, holding her close, just in case there were Achorites about, he stepped out into the world for the first time in 24 hours.

It was a cool arid night, as they had all been this winter. Another year of drought, another supposed rainy season with no rain. He put her under his leather jacket, protecting her from the drying air, and glanced up at the skies. It was overcast much of the time, but the clouds never broke. Just gray skies and broken brown earth.

Anna cooed as they crossed the street. There was an elementary school down the block, and he entered the little paved play-yard. He sat down with Anna on one of the mesh swings and pushed gently back with his feet. She liked that. Her little face, framed by his leather lapels, was exultant as they swung back and forth in the sand. "A thrill-seeker, that's what you are," he told her. "Searching for excitement." He gave a moment's consideration to what this meant for the future. "No dating bikers," he warned her. "Specially demon bikers."

He could just not let her date. That would work. But... but... this was the progeny of a godking and a vampire. A souled vampire. Demon biker suitors weren't the only dangers out there for his little girl.

He found his cellphone in his pocket and punched in the number he'd always refused to program into memory (though it was locked into his own memory, the one in his head).

"Angel."

It was Angel's private line. Not private enough.

He talked fast, so Angel wouldn't have time to object. "I need you to go outside to a pay phone and call me back at this number."

"But–"

"I wouldn't call you if it weren't important. You know that."

Angel was silent for a moment. Of course he knew it. They both knew it. They hadn't talked in months, so Angel had to know this was something imperative. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."

So Spike sat there swinging with Anna for awhile. He could feel her little bird heart, beating fast, right up against his still one. She was giving him life, just like that. Infusing him.

Her heartbeat accelerated when the phone rang, and he quick pulled it out and flipped it open, in case the noise scared her. "Yeah."

"Okay, why am I standing out here on the streetcorner talking into a phone that smells like spit?"

Spike outlined the situation as cogently as he could, but that wasn't really cogent, and Angel kept interrupting with _Get to the point_ and _What does that mean_ and _I don't get the connection here_. Finally, though, they arrived at the conclusion, and Angel shut up for a bit. Then he said, "I was hoping we were through with Illyria forever."

This got Spike revved. He was loyal to old lovers– hell, he'd given Harmony a job referral last week– and Illyria had never done him wrong. Besides, she was Anna's mother, and for that, Spike owed her forever. "Illyria's okay. That's not the point."

"What's the point?"

"The point is–" And Spike wondered why he bother to call Angel, if Angel didn't get the point without being told. "You're my grandsire. Have to report this, don't I?"

Angel would probably prefer to forget he had any demon descendants, but Spike, even as defiant a vampire as he was, knew what was due the Master of Aurelius. Besides– "Anyway, look." And then he couldn't finish, because suddenly he was scared. He looked out into the lamplit street, and imagined dangers there– drunk drivers and vampires and Wolfram & Hart attorneys with their briefcases and prophecies.

"What?" Angel said. Tragedy and victory hadn't brought him any closer to patience.

"It's who she is. If anyone should find out– your crew, to start with–"

"What do you mean, my crew?"

"Wolfram & Hart."

"It's now Wolfram, Angel, & Hart," Angel said stiffly. "And we don't do evil."

"Here in LA. What about the other 17 offices worldwide? If they find out about Anna–"

"They won't." One thing about Angel. When he finally decided to take charge, he took charge. "I'll arrange for a sorcerer. Someone I trust. Easy enough to hide her from ill forces. And I bet you Illyria didn't let her go without some wards. She'll be safe enough here in LA." He added, "I'll come over later. See what needs to be done."

Spike felt the sort of relief he hadn't felt since he was a fledgling and trusted that Angelus would always come through (though usually with some cuffs and threats and beatings attached). "I appreciate it."

"Well..." Angel finished all in a rush. "She's family."

Then he rung off, and Anna grabbed hold of Spike's shirt with her little hand, and he said, "Okay, okay, at your service, princess," and started the swing going again.

He sang to her in time to their pendulum– _The House of the Rising Sun_ , just because the rhythm was right, but she seemed to like it, and scrabbled happily against him. Spike decided to stop, though, because he was kicking up a lot of dust, and dust probably wasn't good for her little human lungs. So he got up and carried her back through the schoolyard, past a patch of stiff yellow grass and staked twigs that must have once been the students' garden. There was some injunction against garden-watering, he remembered that from the news. Too little snow in the mountains, too little rain down here. The dryest of winters, the fourth year of the drought– grass and flowers didn't stand a chance.

And no prospect of rain in the spring either. Household rationing was next, and as he crossed the street, he thought about stocking up on bottled water for Anna's formula.

"Can't let you go hungry," he murmured. She was a persistent little thing– she was now intent on working her little fist out of the leather cocoon he'd made for her, and he stopped on the sidewalk to gaze down at the top of her dark head and that stubborn fist of hers, searching for an opening. She found it, a gap between the buttons, and thrust her hand out into the open air.

"That's my strong little girl," he said. "Break on through to the other side."

Then her little fist unfurled, and her tiny pink palm was revealed, and he couldn't help but stroke it.

It was wet there, under his finger. He frowned, puzzling this out, drawing his hand away from hers. A drop of water appeared where his finger had been, right in the middle of her minuscule lifeline.

He looked up, and a waterdrop hit him in the forehead.

All around him, pedestrians halted, staring up at the sky. "It's raining," one woman said wonderingly.

Above them, that light gray urban sky was turning dark as new clouds gathered. And as if as one, they all turned to gaze at what they hadn't seen in months– the pellets of rain frozen for a crystalline instant in the halo of the streetlamps.

Anna cooed something, and withdrew her hand, and Spike stood there in the soft rain, feeling her warmth against his chest. And then he whispered, "Should have named you Persephone, shouldn't I, love?"


	5. Chapter 5

No message from Buffy.

Sometimes he thought he only got life in pieces. Bits of joy here and there, like marshmallows in the hot chocolate. He'd learned to experience them totally when he had them. But sometimes he wished they'd last a bit longer.

Ungrateful of him. He had Anna, and he had Buffy in one way or another. And now he had Angel at the door, knocking in his imperious way. What more could a vampire want, huh?

Angel had never been here before, so Spike had to make an invitation, which felt bloody strange, inviting him in. Angel shoved in, his arms full of bags. "I got a few things," he said unnecessarily, shaking his head to disperse the rain, and dumped his packages on the throw rug in the little foyer. "So let me see your little blue baby."

Spike was getting to be an old hand at showing Anna off. Nonchalantly he picked her up from the dresser drawer and held her lengthwise across his forearm, so her little head rested on his bicep. He jiggled her a little, and she opened her eyes and stared at her... hmm. Great-grandsire?

And she yawned. It was one of her sweetest looks, Spike decided. 'Course he was now constantly having to redefine that term "sweet", along with "adorable" and "perfect" and "beautiful".

Angel bent down to peer into her sleepy little face. "Got your eyes." After a moment he straightened up and looked away. "Kind of has Fred's chin."

Whoa. That hit Spike hard. Unexpected. He'd never thought of Illyria as anything of Fred, not from the beginning, when he couldn't smell Fred anymore. But the DNA– "Yeah," he said gently. "Maybe you're right."

"She's, what? Two months? Three months?"

Spike was reluctantly impressed. "Probably three months."

"That was how old Connor was– when I lost him." Angel loomed there, a big man in a small space, and he gazed down at Anna with a frown. Anna didn't back down, however, glowering right up at him. Angel's dark face lightened, and he laughed. It was a rusty sound, like he didn't laugh much. "Boy, I think I've seen that look before. Takes right after her dad, doesn't she?"

"You should see her roundhouse kicks."

But Angel was off into some memory, his eyes unfocused and cloudy. "Connor didn't have hair like this."

"Yeah, well, no baby ever has," Spike said with absolute certainty.

"He came back a couple weeks after he was taken. But he wasn't a baby anymore. He was... a teenager." Angel made this sound like the worst variety of demons. "Maybe she'll be better. She's a girl. Girls are easier, right?"

"You don't know Dawn well, do ya?" Spike sat down on the couch, pulling Anna up against him so it looked like she was sitting up too. "Anna's got a mind of her own. Going to be a handful. Even without the whole god thing." She settled her head against his arm, and he said, very low, "The rain. Tonight. I think– I think she did it."

"Did what?"

"Made it rain."

Angel stared at him. "You think she has that kind of power? Already? She can't even sit up!"

"Well, she will, won't she? Give her some time!" Spike said defensively. "That's just baby stuff. The god stuff–" He took a breath. "Illyria brought her here today because it's the first day of spring. The vernal equinox. She's supposed to be aboveground for six months. Spring and summer. And then–"

It hit him then, what Illyria had said. Six months above, six months below. He was going to have to surrender Anna in ... in six months. He swallowed hard, circled his arms around her. Couldn't think of that now. "It's like Persephone."

Angel looked blank, and Spike said impatiently, "Persephone. She lived six months aboveground and during that time, she brought fertility and joy to the land. But then she had to live in the underworld with the dark god Hades for six months, and the land lay cold and fallow, awaiting her return."

"Yeah. I remember now." Angel regarded Anna with renewed interest. "Well, it's raining out, no doubt about it. Nice gentle soaking rain. Kind we need. Hey! Where's your remote?"

In a moment, Angel had turned on the Weather Channel, where a woman weathercaster was holding forth with a map and a lethal-looking wooden pointer. "That's the evening gal. She's pretty smart," he said, and Spike had the sinking feeling that his grandsire spent a lot of time with the evening gal, watching closely as she pointed out highs and lows and arctic cold fronts on the map.

Angel's gal was going on and on about unexpected precipitation in the Southern California basin, especially helpful since it was happening at night, when it would have time to soak into the parched ground before the sun rose. "Of course, one night of rain isn't going to be enough," she warned. Anna gurgled and kicked at Spike's thighs, as if she completely agreed.

With one final longing look at the weatherlady, Angel flipped the telly off. "Maybe we need to see what the next few days are like before we make any judgments about your little girl."

"Maybe," Spike said. But he didn't need more evidence. He'd felt her call the rain. She couldn't even say pa-pa yet, but she could make the rain. "So... whadja bring her, anyway?"

"Oh, right!" Angel bounced up and dragged his packages into the middle of the living room. This was the most animation Spike had seen in him since he fought that dragon. First he pulled out a big box. "Diapers. You'll need those."

"I'm getting that idea."

"Stand up."

Spike started to protest on principle, but Angel was crouched with his hand in the big K-Mart bag like he was Santa Claus. So Spike rose, keeping tight hold of his baby with his left arm.

"See," Angel said, "how you can't use both hands. What if the Fell Brotherhood made a grab for her?"

"Got both feet, don't I?" Spike said. "Sides, I kind of remember slaying four or five of them, holding that baby boy as I did it."

"Yeah, but what if you have to open a formula can, huh?"

Spike considered this and reluctantly nodded. "That's a tough one. Got to admit."

'Ta-da!" Angel pulled out a plastic-wrapped something about the size of a seat cushion. "The Swaddly! Great invention." He kept talking as he de-plasticked the item. "This is so cool. See, it straps on–" And before Spike knew it, something was being lowered over his head, and Angel said, "Hold her out for a minute," and he had to thrust Anna out into the open air, which she didn't like one bit, while Angel adjusted straps and fastened buckles and grabbed his free arm and jammed it around, and then made him switch Anna to that arm, and jammed the other arm around for awhile. It kind of hurt, not that he'd let Angel know that.

Finally Angel stepped away. "Now put her in the pouch."

Spike looked down at the contraption. It was kind of a cloth carryall, like an overnight bag strapped to his chest. "What–"

Angel made an exasperated noise, and put his hands on Spike's and guided them until Anna was resting, her head on his chest, in a rather clever little pouch in the overnight bag. Her chubby little legs stuck out through holes in the bottom, but her little bum was securely resting on a thick cloth webbing.

Angel held up his hands as if he were still Spike's fighting teacher. "Now hit my hands."

Suspiciously, Spike raised his right hand and chopped at Angel.

"Both hands," Angel said. "Trust me. She's secure."

Slowly Spike let go of her back. He punched one-two, a quick combination, real light, at Angel. Anna bounced against him, laughing. She liked fighting. He'd have to remember that. Have Buffy give her a few lessons– if Buffy were still with him then--

"See? She stays put. You can fight, or open cans, or carry groceries." Angel added, "I got black. Figured it'd match everything in your wardrobe."

"Thanks. I mean, really. Thanks." Spike felt humbled by this generosity. He had no experience with Angel being nice. "This'll be useful. She doesn't like being put down, you know." He added, "You think I'm spoiling her?"

"Can't spoil babies," Angel said promptly. "They have to be secure that they're loved and all that."

This seemed so at odds with Angelus's philosophy of fledgling control that Spike almost argued with him. But he didn't want to put Anna down, and now he had an authority figure affirming his decision. Okay, the authority figure was Angel, the one who he'd spent his unlife defying, but still Spike felt affirmed.

He even felt secure enough to reach out, offer a beer, even seek advice without thinking he was surrendering something important. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

He removed Anna from the Swaddly and laid her on the couch. Then he inserted a finger in her mouth. "I was reading up on baby problems just before you came. On the Web. And–" He gently eased her little jaw apart and gestured Angel over. "I'm worried about those white spots on her gums. I saw this thing about thrush–"

Angel peered over his shoulder, and then gave a short laugh. "Some vampire you are. Don't recognize teeth?"

Spike looked harder. "Those are teeth? Those little white spots?"

"Well, they'll be teeth, in a few months. They break through the gums. Lots of pain and drooling." He backed away and went back to his bag. "I got her a teething rattle just for that reason. Be sure and wash it good first– Oh! Got one more thing." He pulled out a little black book and tossed it to Spike. "Just the start of a college account for her. You know. To help with her tuition."

Spike couldn't speak for a moment. Then, staring down at the passbook, he said, "Yeah. Thanks. I – I wasn't even thinking of that yet." He wondered if Anna would ever have a normal enough life– be a normal enough girl– to need a college savings account.

"Well, you got awhile before she's off to USC." Angel made a face. "That is, unless she goes to another dimension and comes back two weeks later, 17 years older."

Spike remembered the wiry kid who showed up that last couple weeks before the final battle, and was eventually revealed to be, somehow, Angel's son. "How's that going? Your kid?"

Angel rose and started folding up his plastic bag. "Okay. He's doing well enough in college. But– " He stuffed the plastic bag into his coat pocket. "I think of him as Connor, as my boy. But I'm like third in line for father. There's Holtz, who raised him. He's dead, but he's the one Connor always thought of as father. And then there's the guy, the one they placed him with-- he has all those memories of that guy as his father. They're all made up, but they feel real to him."

"Like Dawn. She had all these memories of Joyce as her mother."

"Yeah. And then there's me– had him for a few months he doesn't remember because he was too young, and then a few months when we were at odds. And a couple weeks where we were.. friends. But I know he doesn't feel me as a father."

The middle snap on Anna's sleeper had popped, and her little ivory belly was exposed to the air. Automatically Spike snapped her back up. "You think that'll happen here? With her having to spend half the year down below? Will she forget me?"

Angel said, "You can always go and visit her, can't you? Take her some toys?"

This cheered Spike. "Yeah. Can't imagine Illyria would object." Then he thought of the $9000 in bills in his wallet, wherever that was, and said, "I got to think of funds. Flying off to England every month to visit her... paying for her schooling.... I should start saving, you think?"

"This is getting scary," Angel said. But he was smiling as he said it. Then, just as quickly, he sobered. "So how's Buffy taking this?"

"You know about us?"

"Well–" Angel hunched his shoulders. "Vampire."

That meant showering twice and changing the bed linens didn't get rid of all Buffy traces. "I don't know. She's been real helpful."

Angel dropped into the recliner and picked up his beer bottle. "She was not happy when she found out about Connor."

"Well, this is different. I didn't keep this from her. And Anna's a baby, not a teenager."

"Yeah. And she probably doesn't hate the mother. Illyria never tried to kill her, like Darla did." Angel sat there, brooding, draining his beer bottle. "But that was the final nail in our coffin, you know. She couldn't get past the Connor thing."

That kind of chilled Spike. But this was different. Anna was an infant, and about a thousand times more adorable than Angel's scrubby kid. And she came as much of a surprise to Spike as to Buffy. Buffy wasn't real enthusiastic, that was clear, but she wasn't holding this against him.

Angel was staring down into his beer bottle, still mumbling. "Then there was you."

"Me? Hey, don't blame me. We just got it together this morning, and she left you months ago."

Angel looked up, blinking. "You mean she didn't come right to you?"

"Nah. We been trying the friend route the last few months." Spike drank off the rest of his beer, careful not to spill any on Anna in her little pouch. "Took a while to get to this point."

Angel rose, started pacing the small room. "She had to get me out of her system, huh? Had to make sure we wouldn't work. And then she could go back to you."

Spike got annoyed. "Look. Whatever else you want to believe, remember this. I've been with her, one way or another, most of five years. She wanted a slaying partner, I was there. She wanted a sex toy, I was there. She wanted a right-hand man, I was there. She wanted a friend, I was there. Part of her, I am. One way or another. And that doesn't have bugger all to do with you."

Angel glowered, but didn't answer. Not at first. Then he said casually, "Kind of wonder whether she's going to be so willing now– since you're going to have to be something that has nothing to do with her."

"She loves me," Spike said. "And she'll love my baby." But it sounded weak even to him.

Angel got up and set the beer bottle on the end table. "I better go." He started for the door, and then turned. "Hey." He looked down at the floor, stuck his hands in his pocket, shuffled his feet. "You think I could hold her? I won't drop her–"

"Sure." Spike lifted the drowsy Anna out of her pouch, and, his face brightening, Angel came over and took her in his arms.

"She's so light," he said. "You should take her to the doctor, get her weighed."

"Yeah," Spike replied, but he was worried. He had to take her, yeah, get her those shots babies get. But... but what if something showed up? What if the doctor looked in her eyes with that scope and saw something – Spike wouldn't call it weird. Nothing about his daughter was weird. But unique, yeah. "I need a doctor, won't get all curious and write scientific papers about her. You know anyone? Not one of your evil types. Just a doctor who will understand."

Angel gazed down at the baby. "Yeah, I'll get a couple names for you. And I already arranged for a sorcerer I trust, put on a ward to protect against demons. You know, I can babysit sometime. You need someone. Like if you and Buffy want to go out some evening." He glanced up at Spike, and then away. "If you want to go out patrolling, maybe. I can watch the little one for you. I know what I'm doing. Ask anyone. Ask–"

And then he fell silent, and they both thought of the others, the ones who had been with Angel when he had his own baby to care for. Wes and Fred and Gunn and Cordelia. All gone now.  
Spike said quickly, "That'd be good. The girl upstairs said she'd babysit, but I can only afford her maybe twice a week."

Angel smiled. It was a good smile, a real one. "I won't even charge you."

The knocker sounded, and Angel got up quickly, coming over and handing the baby back. "I better get going, now you've got company."

So he was the one to open the door and let Buffy in.

Spike held Anna and watched as Buffy and her ex came face to face. "Uh, hi, Buffy," Angel said.

"Angel," Buffy said, looking quick at his face and then over at Spike. "You meet the new addition?"

"Yeah. Brought over some supplies. Remembered because. You know. Connor."

"Oh, right." Buffy smiled at Spike. "Hey. Thought we'd get some more essentials. There's an all-night discount store over on Tasca. I called, and they have cribs and strollers and all that. But you need a car seat first. Can't drive her to the store without one of those."

"It's illegal," Angel said.

Spike shrugged, and Buffy added, "It's not safe for Anna. Got to strap her in."

"Oh. Right. Got to keep her safe. So– car seat first."

"We can get one at the drugstore on the corner," Buffy said. "I scouted it for you. But there are six different kinds, and I don't know which is best."

Spike noticed Angel hanging around the doorway, and something twisted in his chest. Bugger this– get a baby, and he got all sentimental about the grandsire? "Angel, you been through this recently. Maybe you can help us choose the right one?"

Angel's face lit up. "Yeah!" Then he caught himself and lowered his voice. "Sure. If you need me."

And so Buffy went and retrieved a bathtowel– they had to buy Anna some blankets, Spike told himself– and Spike located his wallet under the bed, and they all filed out into the soft rain. And the baby raised her face to the sky, and laughed.


	6. Chapter 6

Angel didn't warn him that the baby cot– or crib, as the Americans had it-- would have to be assembled. "Like I remembered?" Angel said, staring down at all the pieces on the floor. "I just remember Connor lying there being sweet."

Buffy sat down on the rug and pulled at the biggest piece of white-painted wood. "Here's one of the sides."

Spike set Anna down in her little nest, and sat down next to Buffy. He extricated another piece from the box. "Here's the other side."

"We could, you know, read the instructions," Angel pointed out.

They both looked at him with disapproval. "Where's your spirit of adventure?" Buffy asked.

"We're not stupid. Between the four of us, we should be able to figure it out."

Anna wasn't much help– she fell asleep after another bottle. And once all the big pieces were assembled and only minor bits like the legs were left, Buffy said, "Sorry, fellas, I've got a class tomorrow. Got to get some naptime." And as Spike watched, she walked into his bedroom like she owned it, and closed the door, and he heard the bedsprings squeak as she climbed into his bed.

Angel got up and got another beer. "I see what you mean. Cutest baby in the world, and Buffy steers clear."

Spike knew this was agreement– something he wasn't used to from Angel. And he ought to accept it graciously. But he felt defensive. "She was a big help with all the shopping."

Angel nodded. "She sure was. I'd forgotten about the bibs, but she thought of them right away. And the swing. We should put that together after we're done with this. And she's the one who found those educational blocks."

Spike realized that Buffy and Angel actually did have one thing in common after all. They both loved things. And Babies R Us was like a playground for them both. He couldn't fit all their acquisitions in and on top of his car. So Angel'd had to call W&H and have a driver come to bring him and the crib and swing back from the store. "Yeah. See. She cares."

"Just not the baby-holding type, I guess. Now you think this is the right front leg, or the left?"

They got the crib assembled, and had started in on the swing when Anna woke with a sort of preliminary sound that indicated that she was going to howl unless she got picked up right away. So as Angel fitted the little flannel sheet and bumpers in the crib, Spike tended to her, and she was happy again until he finally laid her in her new bed.

She stared at him, her eyes blue pools of betrayal, and then she cried. She cried like she'd been abandoned beside the railroad track, like someone had stolen her last bottle, like her papa had pointed out that one of her ears was slightly pointier than the other. She looked up at him and waved her arms and legs. Tears ran down her chubby cheeks.

Thunder crashed, and the flash of a lightning bolt briefly illuminated the window.

Spike had known guilt in his unlife. It had driven him mad at one point. But this was worse. This was Anna. This he couldn't bear. He reached down into the crib to get her. But his grandsire held him back.

"No! Let her alone."

Spike struggled in the implacable grasp. "You were the one said I couldn't spoil her."

"Yeah, that was before we spent all night putting that crib together. Let her get used to it."

Spike gave her another agonized glance, and said, "Okay. Okay. But we got to quiet her, or she'll wake Buffy."

"Here! Try this! Always worked with Connor."

And Angel's game face slid down, and he bent over the crib. "Hey, baby, look!"

Spike thought this was a really stupid idea, but he didn't have any of his own, so he shook his head, donning his own vamp face, and went around to the other side of the crib and bent and took Anna's flailing hand.

She shut up in mid-howl. She stared, first at Spike and then at Angel, turning her gaze from one to the other like she was following a tennis match. She made a little hiccup, and then a giggle, and she reached out her hand towards Angel, and he bent low enough that she could brush the wrinklies on his forehead with her little fist.

"Told ya," Angel said modestly, showing Anna his fangs. "It's like magic."

Buffy came out, yawning, as they were putting on their show for Anna. She shook her head. "That's right, guys, get her all intrigued by vamp faces. She'll grow up thinking that's the way men should look."

Spike shook his head and resumed his human face. But he didn't want Anna thinking that was good either. "Don't need to worry," he said firmly. "She's not going to date anyone at all."

Buffy laughed as she gathered up her bag and coat. "Yeah, that worked so well when we tried it with Dawn, huh? She didn't listen to us. Her first date was with a vampire."

"And now she's going out with a lawyer," Spike said. "Just can't keep her away from bloodsuckers."

He and Buffy shared a smile– maybe they were okay after all– and he realized Angel was watching them. He probably never realized that Spike and Buffy shared a history– shared Dawn and her upbringing. Shared a lot that wasn't just slaying and sex.

"You're taking off?" Angel said. And then, eager– it hurt to hear him– "Can I give you a ride?"

Before Spike could say anything, Buffy raised her hand. Dangling from her index finger was a ring of keys. "Hey, LA woman here. Got a car and everything." She waited by the door, her expression enigmatic.

Spike had corralled his feelings for so long, he wasn't sure how to act on them anymore. Not with his new baby right there, and his jealous grandsire standing close. But he decided he wanted to kiss her goodbye, and so he did, crossed the room and took her in his arms and kissed her. "Thanks for the help," he said.

She kissed him back, quick, sweet. "Maybe we can, uh, patrol tomorrow night. I mean tonight. If you can, you know, do the babysitter thing."

"Right." He thought of Jenny and Mrs. Alvarez– not yet. Not until the sorceror put wards on the building–

"I'll babysit."

Spike turned to stare at Angel. "You mean it?"

Angel shrugged. "Sure. I'm good with babies. And–" he glanced down at Anna, sleeping quietly now in her new crib. "And I think she likes me okay."

 

 

Spike came awake with a start. It was dark in the room, only a slice of afternoon light filtering in through the blinds, and for a moment he couldn't remember where they'd put the crib. Just through the doorway. Right. He could hear Anna breathing, sweet and slow, and relaxed.

But there was someone here with him. No one solid. He'd know if there were someone solid here– smell, taste, someone solid. But then he saw the blue shimmer, and sat up in bed.

"It's all right, Blue." He reached out his hand towards the shimmer, knowing that he couldn't touch her. "She's all right. Settled in real nice. You can look–"

The shimmer deepened, and he added, "Named her Anna. Got her some little nappies and some little snappy clothes. Even got Angel involved. He's going to get some sorceror in, do a protection spell."

The shimmer started to fade, and he said quickly, "I know you worry. Know it's hard. Comes with the job. But I'll take care of her. And –" this was hard. But he knew what was needed. "And bring her back to you when the time is due. Bring her back strong and safe."

And then he felt her leave him. And Anna started to cry.


	7. Chapter 7

When Angel came in that evening, shaking rain off his hair, Spike was about to run mad. Anna had been crying since Blue came and left. The sorcerer had diverted her for a moment with his incense and mutterings, but after he departed, nothing worked, not a nappy change or a bottle or a swing in the swing. And Spike had a headache from going from vamp to human-face in rapid succession.

Angel was certain he could make her smile, but Anna could sap the confidence of even The Big Brood. Spike left him there, despairingly shifting from vamp and back and singing some dirge, only the words sort of sounded like that stupid Wang Chung song, just no fun at all, and he could hardly blame Anna for protesting loudly. Except she was going to get them evicted if she kept up this wailing. And more important, he wasn't going to be able to get away to patrol with Buffy.

In the bedroom, he pawed through the basket that held most of his clothes. They were all clean, however, and that wasn't what he needed. He pulled open the closet door and stared at the three sweatshirts and two jackets hanging there and breathed deep. Blue had worn one of these back when they were together, the night they climbed up to the roof and she showed him the stars and told him which ones she owned. That one, the gray sweatshirt. He brought the sleeve up to his face and felt her there, his Blue, not the harsh one with all the majesty, rather the one who wasn't meant to be here but stayed awhile for him.

He pulled the sweatshirt off the hook and carried it out to where Angel stood, mumbling his song down to the bellowing baby. Spike was closer than he liked to his grandsire– same room was closer than he liked– but he didn't want to upset Anna anymore by taking her away. "Here, Anna," Spike said, and inserted a sweatshirt sleeve between her flailing arms. He let the cuff dangle close to her nose– not close enough to smother her, of course– and she took a big gulp, preparatory to a new wail, and then her eyes opened, great blue lakes of sadness, and she blinked, and quieted. Another breath. Angel stood completely still, holding her, as Spike rubbed her wet cheek with the soft material. One little fist opened and grabbed, and she was holding it, sighing a bit. Quiet.

"Misses her mum," Spike said. "Smells her on that shirt."

Angel shook his head. "Whatever works." He let Spike take her then and sat down hard on the couch. "Forgot how much that takes out of you. Baby crying. Helplessness. Futility. Despair." He looked over at Anna, suddenly asleep with her hand clutching the cloth and her other thumb in her mouth. "Let me have her back. You go get ready for Buffy."

He had a weird unlife, Spike thought as he packed a bag with a couple hatchets and a change of clothes– muddy out there now, and besides, maybe he'd get lucky. Here was his grandsire, Buffy's ex, babysitting Spike's child by his own ex. And him getting ready for a date with Angel on his couch like a maiden aunt chaperone.

Buffy arrived, her trenchcoat buttoned up tight and her hair sparkling with raindrops, and she waved at Angel and the baby and grabbed Spike's hand and pulled him outside to her car. "Let's get going while the rain's stopped," she said, and in a few minutes they were at her apartment door in Westwood.

"I thought we were going patrolling."

"It's a new euphemism," Buffy said, yanking him into her living room. She let go of his hand, kicked off her boots, and unbuttoned her trenchcoat. She wore nothing underneath. Nothing. He drew in a breath. Let it out. Almost felt human. Did feel humble.

"Buffy." He couldn't manage more than a whisper. She pressed up against him, kissing him, her hands busy at his beltbuckle, and he slid his arms around her little waist, and opened his mouth to her probing tongue. She was taking charge like she used to, stripping him, guiding his hands to her breasts... only now as she pushed him down on the carpeted floor, she was whispering, "I love you, I love you."

A significant difference. He could get used to it. But just to show he wasn't easy, even if he kind of was, he rolled her over so it was her bare back against the scratchy rug, and pretty soon he was the one talking about love while she only moaned.

Lovemaking– it was what he'd always longed for, that she would meet his tenderness with sweetness, that she would return his loving words with love of her own, that she would feel so safe with him she made him feel safe too. And so when they were nestled together in her bed– her bed, which he'd long since given up hoping to share– he was reluctant to ruin the mood.

But he was a father now, and had an obligation. A new one, an unaccustomed one. But he had to say it, however obliquely, speaking the name into the darkness. "About Anna–"

She knew what he was asking, and this time she offered a real answer. "I know. She's yours. I won't get in the way. But–"

"But you won't get too close."

She gathered herself into herself, her head against his chest, her shoulders hunched. "I can't. I can't. I wish I could, but all I can think is... she's not mine. And I can't make her mine."

"You can if–"

"I can't."

He felt her tears on his chest, and tightened his arms around her. "Why?"

"Because... oh, look, I'm not like you. You can love. I mean, it's easy for you."

"Depends on who's getting that love, I think."

"Okay. Except for me. And Angel. We're not easy, I know. But you still love us."

He was about to protest that Angel thing. Putting him in the same category as Buffy– nah. Sure, there was some family feeling, a residue of the old affection, but–

"I just– I just can't give like that. You know? I mean, sometimes I think about you and Dawn, and how you almost loved her before I did. She's my sister, and I do love her, but sometimes I think I've had to make myself do it. And you–"

"You've had to make yourself love me?" It hurt. Better than no love at all, but still–

"No. But think how long I kept myself from that. Years. You deserved my love, and I couldn't give it. I had to lose you to know I could love you."

"But Anna's just a baby."

"Yeah. And that's not for me. Babies and slayers, not mixy."

"Because I'm a vampire," he said flatly. "And can't give you–"

"No. That's the thing." She lay quiet against him, and finally added, "It's a relief. I couldn't do it. I can't see myself that way. I don't think I'd be good at it."

He wanted to protest. Wanted to tell her that Anna could be hers too, that it was a perfect solution– they could have her together, at least half the time–

But that wasn't what she meant. It wasn't a matter of mechanics, of seed that could work when a god interfered. She meant something harsher. Something he didn't want to know.

"I just can't," she said. "I can love you. And maybe I can love you enough that some of it comes through you to her. But– " she drew a breath. "But I think something doesn't work right in me, and hasn't for a long time. I don't know why. I just can't... love like others do."

He understood, but he didn't understand. He'd never understood how he could love her so hard, so well, and it didn't mend her.

But if he loved her, he had to love her. This her. The one in his arms who was crying now because she wasn't like she was supposed to be. And that was never the way he wanted to make her feel. "It's okay," he murmured into her hair. "This is enough. More than enough."

She was trembling, and he hated himself for doing this to her, for making her face the loss. But she pulled away from his arms and sat up in bed, and in the darkness he saw her smile, a wobbly smile, but it was hers. "I know you want to call Angel. Make sure everything's all right."

"Nah," he said, because he wasn't that big a wuss, needing reassurance after only a couple hours gone. But she was getting out of bed and locating his jeans and the cell phone, and she thrust it at him.

"Go ahead."

"I'll just... check my voice mail."

And there was Angel's message. All was well. Going out for a little walk. Baby happy in new stroller.

Angel sounded happy too. Who would have thought it. He had to know what his ex and his grandchilde were doing, and yet Angel sounded happy. Or as happy as he ever got.

"Why is he happy?" Spike asked as they got dressed.

They didn't talk about Angel. Not much. Not really. But everything had changed. They were... together. Partners. She said, easily enough, "He likes to help the helpless. And there's nothing as helpless as a baby. Plus–" She pulled her t-shirt over her head, and her voice came muffled. "I think those weeks with his own baby were about as happy as could be. And he's remembering them now."

Anna's doing. Maybe all babies were like that, making people happy all over the place. He wanted to think Anna was special, and sure, she was, the rain-bringer, the persephone, the link between the above and the below. But that wasn't what made Mrs. Alvarez and Jenny and the cashier at the store smile when they saw her. It was just her baby-ness that did it. Magical everyday miracle.

He wished that Buffy–

Nah. Buffy was all right. He would make Buffy happy enough to suit them both.

They did a desultory patrol of the Moravian cemetery, just so they could say they did, but they held hands as they passed the gravestones, and kissed outside a crypt, just for old times' sake. It would work out, he told himself, holding her close in the soft rain.

The storm started up again as they were driving back, and Spike started to worry, imagining the LA River flooding over its concrete banks and rushing through the streets, upending trashcans and pickup trucks– okay, he liked that image, sure– but also Anna with her fists flailing, her face tight with anguish. And Angel sitting on the couch in despair.

"Let's book it," he said, wishing he were driving and not Buffy, who wasn't nearly as reckless in a car as she was in a cemetery.

She glanced over at him indulgently as she drove along right under the speed limit. "Why don't you call? If it makes you feel better."

Well, sure, if she insisted–

He listened to the phone ring, hearing it echo off the empty walls of his flat. "No answer," he reported. "They're probably still out for a walk."

Buffy didn't say anything, but in the light from the streetlight her face got grim, and he knew she was thinking what he was thinking, that Angel wouldn't keep the baby out with it raining so hard.

"Or maybe," he said, increasingly desperate, "he took her up to the Alvarezes to play with Jenny," though Jenny would be in bed by now, it being a schoolnight.

At least Buffy sped up, and in a couple minutes they were rounding the corner to his block.

And there, in front of his apartment house, was a small gathering huddled under umbrellas. Spike's heart stopped. Okay, it was already stopped. It started again, lurched once, and stopped. He was out of the car before Buffy had even pulled to a stop, and in a couple strides he was pushing through the muttering crowd, past Mrs. Alvarez in her bathrobe and plastic rainhat, and dropped to his knees before the prone body of his grandsire, stretched out on the concrete stoop.

Next to Angel was Anna's new stroller. Empty.


	8. Chapter 8

"I was walking. Pushing the stroller. I felt someone come up, but we were in a crowd, so–" Angel lay back on the couch and closed his eyes, pressing the icebag against his forehead. "Then something pressed against my shoulder. And I don't remember anything more."

"Taser," Spike said. "Can drop a vampire." He jammed another knife into the duffle and zipped it shut. He could hardly hear himself over the roar in his head, but he forced himself to speak calmly. "Any thoughts on how they found out?"

Buffy said, "The driver. From W&H. He must have overheard us talking about Anna."

"And sold the information." Angel pulled himself to a sitting position and looked straight at Spike. "It's my fault. I lost her. Go ahead."

"Go ahead what?" Spike said. He was distracted, grimly looking for his keys on the hall table.

"Go ahead and dust me."

Spike found the car keys on the floor by the door, then turned to stare at his grandsire. "What? Christ. Not going to dust you. You're going to go torture the driver till he tells you who took her."

Angel's face was closed and miserable. "But I deserve–"

"You deserve to be tortured yourself, if you can't help me here," Spike said. "Just do it, all right? Call me when you find out. I'm going to track her... somehow–"

Thunder rolled in the distance. Buffy said, "We can just follow the path of the storm."

"We?" Spike said.

"Yeah. I have this handy-dandy Blackberry," she said, grabbing up her bag, "and I'm going to watch the weather channel site while you drive."

Spike had been holding himself rigid these past minutes, too scared to feel. But now he reached out to her. Touched her calm face. "Love you," he whispered, and led the way out the door into the rain.

 

 

They hardly needed the Blackberry. All they had to do was drive east, following the path of thunderclouds over the mountains. Spike drove fast, without speaking, and Buffy was silent too, except to warn him of a state trooper once.

Finally she said, "We'll find her, Spike."

"I know," he said. He believed it. He had to believe it. He could see Anna's lightning over the mountains, feel her outrage. She was staying strong, demanding him.

He went into gameface to see better through the swipes the wipers left on the windshield. Far ahead he saw the wavering red of taillights, and the dark humps of the mountains on either side.

The phone rang, and Buffy answered immediately, demanding to know what Angel had learned. "You mean human?"

He glanced over, and she shook her head. "Okay. Well, that makes it easier. We're getting close. Anna's left kind of a bright trail for use to follow." A pause, and her face tightened. "You're wrong. It's not happening again. Anna's not going to come back fifteen years older. She's going to come back and take her bottle and fall asleep in the crib we built for her."

She hung up and looked over at Spike. In the intermittent moments of lightning, her face was composed. Now she tried a smile. "He's all guilty."

Spike's hands clenched on the steering wheel. "I don't care. I only care if–" He broke off before he said something violent. "What did you mean about human?"

"It was humans who took her. Hence the taser."

"Yeah, I shoulda figured that out," he said. "No self-respecting demon would use technology like that." Humans. That was... better, right? Humans had souls, right? Consciences? All that?

Jeffrey Dahmer was human.

Spike accelerated. Buffy gripped the armrest but didn't protest. Instead, she said, "They're businessmen. Agribusiness. The driver told them about Anna's Per... Perspicacious mode."

"Persephone." Spike frowned, staring out at the flashes that lit the darkness ahead. "She brings rain. There's been a drought–"

It only took a few minutes, fast as they were going, to breast the mountains and head down into the desert below. "There," Buffy whispered. And as the lightning flashed, he saw it– the brown-gray sandy floor, and then the stripe of pale green, the farms cut out of the desert, cultivated and irrigated and unnatural.

And they descended towards it– through heavy clouds and driving rain.

"She's here," he said flatly.

"So are we," Buffy replied, touching his hand. "We'll be with her very soon."

A minute later, they were whipping past a blue sign– Amerifarms Corp Welcomes You! On both sides of the road, as far as they could see, were swathes of farmland. Now that they were closer, Spike could see that the green wasn't as verdant as the English country side he remembered from childhood– too pale and sickly-looking for that. And the great irrigation machines drooped like abandoned clotheslines.

"It's one of those big agricultural companies," Buffy said.

"Probably a client of W&H." Spike pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car. He stood there in the rain, closing his eyes, feeling for his little girl.

Finally Buffy joined him, linking her hand with his. "We're close. There's got to be a headquarters. They'll probably take her there."

"What if–" He took a deep breath. "What if she's crying, and they lose patience, and–"

"She's too valuable for them to hurt," Buffy said. She tightened her grip. "Let me drive now. You listen for her."

So he got into the passenger seat, and rolled down the window, and put his head out into the darkness. Buffy was right. If he listened hard, there in the rush of the wind was Anna's lusty little bellow. He could hear her. He could feel her in each pelter of raindrops.

"Turn left," he said, and the headlights swerved as they turned into a narrow paved road. It rose through the green fields, and stretched slick and shiny ahead of them. At the end of the road was a white building, shaped like a barn but twice as large, and illuminated with a dozen floodlights. Rain fell in crystal slashes within the circle of light.

Buffy turned off the headlights and slowed. "Plan?"

"Go in and bust heads."

"Spike...."

"Okay." He had to think. Had to plan. "I'll scout around, listen at those windows. When I hear her, we'll break in."

Buffy smiled. "I guess that's as much of a plan as we ever make. And–" she pulled the car to a stop. "We've done all right this far."

Yeah. They were a team. The best team the demon world had ever seen. They could take a few puny humans–

Silently they approached the barn. No alarms. It was only a farm, after all, a placid remote agricultural concern. He walked along the muddy path that circled the building, stopping below every window, Buffy just behind him. Halfway around he heard Anna's broken sobs through the thick window glass. His fists clenched, and Buffy's hands closed on his shoulders. "I'll give you a boost," she whispered. "And be right behind you."

So he put his muddy boot into her joined hands, and she hoisted him up to the window, and he saw a square of bluish light, and the suited back of a big man. He couldn't see Anna, but he heard her quiet little hiccuping breaths.

He balanced his knees against the corrugated aluminum siding, pushed down hard against Buffy's hands– good strong girl, she never uttered a sound– and slammed his fists against the thick window glass.

It shattered inward, and he hurled himself through in a shower of glass. He hit the floor, bounded up, and without taking a breath reached back through the window. Buffy grasped his hand, and he pulled her up. She shoved the weapons bag at him, and he grabbed an axe, and they fell naturally into their accustomed positions, back to back, weapons at the ready.

The suited man turned abruptly, shouting a command, and the big bare room filled with guards. Anna sensed Spike– she had to– and set up a wail, and he saw the guards pull out pistols, and he moved surely towards the man in charge, dropping the axe. Humans needed weapons. Vampires had fangs. "Get her," he said to Buffy. She could be killed by a bullet– he could not.

She started to protest, but cut it off. "After you," she said softly, and he threw himself across the room at the suited man. The guns flashed, and he felt the stings, but momentum carried him into the man and slammed them to the ground. He rolled over, holding the man on top of him, and saw Buffy swoop in and with her free hand grab an infant carrier from the desk, the axe swinging in an arc from the other hand. Anna took a great breath and howled – in triumph, he thought.

"Go!" he yelled, and without another look back, Buffy was through the window.

The guards swarmed after her, and Spike shoved the protesting man to his feet, twisted his arm behind his back, and slid into game face. He bit down hard– remembered how, after so long– and then raised his head to see the guards looking horrified back at him. He let the blood drip from his fangs onto the whimpering man's neck. "Call them off," he whispered, letting a tooth brush the man's ear.

"Stand down!" the man said, his voice squeaking.

"Drop the guns," Spike suggested, and the three guards looked at each other, and at him, and one slowly let his hand relax and the gun fall to the floor. The other two followed suit.

Spike licked the blood seeping from the little cut in the man's neck. Tasted good. He said, "She's mine. Got it? You got your rain, and that's all you're going to get from her. Agreed?"

The man's head bobbed.

"You come after her again, or send anyone after her, or tell anyone about her, and I'm coming after you. I'll get you, and your guards. And your mother and their mothers too. Understand?"

"You're crazy!"

"That I am," Spike said, his voice deep with menace. "Don't forget it. I'm a monster, and I'm crazy, and I've tasted your blood, and I like it. So you stay away from me and mine, you want to keep your circulatory system, okay?"

He yanked the man to the broken window, past the cringing guards, and fell out of it, landing hard on the sodden ground. His hostage landed on top of him, letting out a bellow that cut off when Spike tightened his grip. "You're coming for a little ride."

He dragged the man to the waiting car, opened the back door, and fell in. "Got a passenger for a mile or so."

Buffy looked back just once as she shifted into gear. "Fine by me."

Holding on to the hostage's neck, Spike pulled the door shut and looked over at the carrier in the other seat. "Anna okay?"

"Right as rain," Buffy said. "Fell asleep as soon as I got her in the car."

He jammed a fist under the man's throat and leaned back, his head against Anna's carseat. "Let me know," he whispered, all weary now. "When we're out of sight of that building."

In a minute or so, Buffy was pulling to a halt, and Spike opened the car door and shoved the man out into the mud. He was too tired to climb into the front seat, so he took a light hold of Anna's warm plump leg and listened to her steady heartbeat. He felt Buffy's hand come through between the front seats and stroke his shoulder, and he murmured, "Thanks, slayer. For coming along."

"Yeah, well," she said, her hand gentle, her voice soft, "next time I get to have some of the fun too."


	9. Chapter 9

"Six." A clunk in the bowl. "Seven." Another clunk.

Spike moved his arm experimentally, and Angel hit his hand with the blunt end of the pliers. "Stay still, goddamnit. There might be another one."

"You sure he shouldn't go to a doctor?" Buffy was hovering anxiously, Anna held against one hip.

"I've pulled plenty of bullets out of this one," Angel said, pulling the table lamp closer and peering down at Spike's bare chest. "You shoulda seen him after that last battle last year. Looked like Swiss cheese."

"Perforated," Spike agreed, sitting up on the couch and feeling his stomach for any fragments. "And then there was the time in Budapest."

Angel dropped the pliers, point first, onto Spike's thigh, and ignoring the pained howl, reached for the bandages. "You promised never to mention Budapest again."

Spike sullenly nodded. "Just sayin'. More bullets that night." He tossed the pliers aside, rubbed his leg, and smiled at Buffy. "Bit of a sting, is all." Then, as Angel strapped up the wound in his arm, he sagged back against the cushions. "Be fine by morning."

Anna, at least, was taking this well. In fact, she'd liked the sound of the bullets plinging into the bowl. She really liked Spike's cursing, and Angel's obscene replies. And she liked Buffy in her agitation jiggling her up and down.

"Relax, Buffy," Angel said, gathering the bloody cloths up and sticking them into the china bowl with the bullets. "He heals fast, remember?" And then he went off into the kitchen to warm some blood. Nurse Angel. Bedside manner needed some work, but he was a dab hand with the pliers.

Spike watched through half-closed eyes as Buffy sat down in the old easy chair, pulling Anna into her lap. Her hands were efficient and protective, smoothing down the baby's hair, dabbing a cloth to burst the drool-bubble on her mouth. "Rain's stopped," she said.

"Yeah. No more thunder and lightning, till her next temper tantrum."

Buffy rose, paced a few steps, came to stand over him. She set Anna gently on his chest, and his arms closed automatically around her. "Leaving now, are you?"

Buffy stopped her pacing and turned to face him. "No. I mean, yes. I have to–"

"S'okay, Slayer. We'll be all right." He closed his eyes, settled Anna against his chest, his hand on her head. He felt her jostle a bit to get her thumb in her mouth, then she gave a bit of a sigh. Content. They both were. "I owe you one. More than one."

"You don't–"

Buffy's breaths were coming in little huffs now. She was upset. He didn't want to upset her. Wanted to calm her and make her happy. "Come by tomorrow, after your class." He couldn't think of anything calming to do right off. "Bring a DVD. Your choice."

He sensed her tentative smile. "It's okay if it's got Orlando Bloom in it?"

"Need more proof of my love, do you? Sure. Bring the blooming Bloom."

He opened his eyes when she was halfway to the door. But then she whirled around. "I should have a garage sale."

Ho-kay. That made no sense. "You don't have a garage. And what are you going to sell?"

"My DVD player. And my microwave. And my VHS."

He frowned. "You broke, Buffy? Cause I got some cash if you–"

"No. I'm not broke." Her face was tight again, her mouth trembling. "But we won't need two of everything, will we?"

"Two of–" He shook his head, and Anna murmured in protest. "What do you mean?"

She stood there in the middle of the room, her hands opening and closing again. "When I move in. Here. With you. And Anna."

He sat up, Anna sliding down his chest, his hands sliding with her, holding her safe. "Moving in. You're moving in?"

"If– if you'll have me." All in a rush, she said, "Look. Anna's special. We know that. Others might come after her. But we can protect her. Both of us. If I'm living here–"

"Buffy–" His heart hurt. It was all he wanted. But what if it wasn't what she wanted? "Buffy, I'll manage. You don't have to be dutiful."

"It's not duty." She came slowly to him, sat down next to him on the couch, put her hand right over his on Anna's warm back. "I want you to be happy. And that means she has to be safe. And together we'll keep her safe."

"But you don't–"

"Be quiet." She was smiling as she said it, and he smiled back, uncertain. "I want to be with you. And help you with Anna. And you remember. I always get what I want."

"Do you really want it?"

Her hand moved away, hesitated, came to rest on his cheek. "Yes. I want to be here. With both of you. I– I don't think I'll be like a mother. Just not me. But she has a mother. She needs an ... " Her smile turned incandescent. "She needs an aunt!"

Spike – when he was William– had a couple aunts, but they were old and knitted all the time and looked nothing like Buffy. "What does an aunt do?"

"Take her shopping, of course!" Buffy looked down at the sleeping Anna and added, "And take her to the Ice Capades. Hey! I can even teach her to figure skate!"

"How about hockey?" Angel said from the kitchen doorway. "More money in that. And she'll need money, if she's going to take shopping lessons from you."

"Wait–" Spike said, but Buffy was off on one of her flights, and he couldn't stop her.

"It'll be so much fun. Mom used to buy me these Polly Flanders dresses, all smocked on top, with little lace ruffles, and they were so cute. Green velvet for Christmas. And little white tights. And little Mary Jane shoes. Anna would look so adorable. Trust me on this."

"I do," Spike said, and he did. Entirely. "But –" It seemed churlish to protest. Practically unforgivable to point out that they'd never have any time alone this way. And they needed time alone. To patrol. To argue. To make love.

"I can help," Angel said. "Do some babysitting."

They both looked at him, and he ducked his head. "I mean, if you can trust me. After tonight."

"I can trust you," Spike said in a tone of disgust. "Not like anyone's going to be able to drop you that way again."

Angel's face brightened, though he still looked down at his shoes. "You two need to patrol or whatever. I'll come over. If the girl wants to take Anna upstairs, well, I'll just stay here, keep watch."

Spike said awkwardly, "Sure. Thanks. Won't bother you too much, but–"

"It's no bother. She's family. Got to keep her safe. Make up for–" He didn't finish, and pretty soon Buffy stood up, clapping her hands.

"Well, then, I'll go give notice at my apartment. And you guys can help me move tomorrow." She looked assessingly around the little flat. "I'm going to bring my living room suite, Spike. You can take this junk to the dump. It's not good enough for Goodwill."

And she walked out, casting one last glance back at the easy chair, and closing the door hard behind her.

The microwave pinged, and Angel went to retrieve the warm blood. As he set it and a straw on the coffee table, he said softly, "You are so whipped."

"Am not!" Spike retorted automatically. But he couldn't help but smile, looking at that closed front door. "Just a little. Not too much."

Okay, so maybe between Buffy and Anna, he was love's bitch. But at least he was man enough to admit it.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in January-February 2005.


End file.
